


your teeth are the sinking silver of the moon

by darlingargents



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunkenness, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Making Out, Pre-Canon, Teen Winchesters (Supernatural), Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28210968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingargents/pseuds/darlingargents
Summary: It’s exciting, doing something Dad doesn’t want them to do.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 86
Collections: Writing Rainbow Silver





	your teeth are the sinking silver of the moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hearthouses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearthouses/gifts).



> Sam is fourteen and Dean is just-turned-eighteen. They're both kind of drunk but equally into it.
> 
> Title from [this poem](https://iliacl.tumblr.com/post/105838079377/have-you-ever-bit-down-on-a-heart-try-it-next).

John doesn’t like it when they drink.

It seems hypocritical to Sam — John falls asleep with a bottle of Jack in his hand more nights than he doesn’t — but John has always held them to different standards than he holds himself. Sam is used to it and Dean probably would be too if he ever let himself acknowledge their dad isn’t perfect, which will probably never happen.

It doesn’t mean they don’t drink. It just means Dean has to shoplift or buy his own beer, and Sam only gets a handful of sips when Dean wants to watch him sputter. So Sam is fourteen and he’s never been drunk.

Dad leaves them alone for a week, hunting something or other, with a couple hundred dollars and an order to keep training. Sam’s not in school. It’s the middle of winter in Nebraska.

Yeah, they’re gonna get drunk.

Dean, at just-barely-eighteen and with years of practice, can finally avoid getting carded most of the time, and he picks a pocket outside a nearby casino for thirty dollars. It’s enough for a twelve-pack of beer and a couple of bottles of hard liquor. Dean orders them a pizza and spreads the bounty on the table of the motel room.

“Gonna get fucked up, Sammy?” Dean asks, and Sam nods almost unconsciously. It’s exciting, doing something Dad doesn’t want them to do.

Dean puts on a movie — something from Blockbuster, for once, instead of whatever’s on TV, and maybe that means they’ll actually see some boobs — and Sam opens his first beer. The first sip is disgusting. So is the second.

He keeps going anyway.

By the second beer, Sam is feeling it. By the time he’s finished the third, he’s really feeling it. Dean is also on his third beer, though he’s significantly more sober by grace of body weight and experience, and he giggles a little as Sam stumbles to the bathroom. 

“Having fun?” he calls, and Sam throws a thumbs up behind him as he shuts the door.

He is having fun. He takes a leak and looks at himself in the mirror as he washes his hands. There’s a flush high on his cheeks that he doesn’t usually get, his eyes are a bit bloodshot and he has a hard time focusing them, and everything just feels nicer. He wants to laugh.

Back in the living room, there’s a car chase scene going on, and Dean is cracking open beer number four. As Sam walks around the couch to grab his own, he stumbles into the coffee table and falls back on the couch, one hand landing on Dean’s thigh. 

He doesn’t move it, for a long moment, before Dean laughs and shifts his leg, Sam’s hand falling on its own. “Sure you need another one, Sammy?”

“I want one,” he says, mulish, and Dean hands him another can without a word. Dean pretty much always gives him what he wants if Sam asks nice enough. 

On the TV, the hero’s car maneuvers into an alley and the police car pursuing it is cut off by a truck. The drivers on the screen whoop in delight. “Fuck yeah,” Dean says, raising his beer can in a toast, and throws it back.

Sam does the same. Everything is swimming behind his eyes.

Sam starts to feel sick on beer five. The movie is still going, there’s been one scene with visible nipples that made Dean shift a little in his jeans and move away from Sam on the couch, and now it’s some guys talking while they clean their guns. Sam isn’t listening. He’s just looking at Dean. 

He wants Dean. He’s known that for a long time, a fact as simple as breathing: Dean is his, and he wants Dean in every possible way. The shift happened at some point between young childhood and shifting into a teenager: at some point between Dean putting band-aids on his knees and kissing them better, and Dean driving while Sam sits shotgun and watches him smoke, trying to keep it out the window so Dad, passed out in the back seat, doesn’t smell it and wake up.

Sam wants Dean. He wants to touch him now, his body moving too fast for his mind. He’s pressed up next to Dean on the couch. All he has to do is—

Hand on Dean’s thigh again. The first time really was an accident, and he’s not feeling particularly creative. 

Dean exhales, long and hard. “Sammy,” he says, and it’s a word containing a lot of other things in it, Sam can tell. He doesn’t care. He slides his hand up, just a bit.

In the movie, a girl in a slinky red dress puts out a cigarette on a dresser and slowly slides out of the dress, her breasts popping out one by one like they have a life of their own. The fingers of Dean’s hands, resting on his knees, curl into his jeans.

“Sammy,” he says again, his voice low, and Sam pushes his leg up against Dean’s, sharing the warmth between them. Sam’s mouth is dry, his heart racing.

The naked woman on the screen plants a kiss on the hero. Sam makes his move, climbing onto Dean’s lap. It’s not as graceful as he would’ve liked, but he gets there, straddling Dean with his hands on his shoulders. It’s dark in here, lit mostly by the TV and the faint light of a lamp in the corner, but he can see that Dean is staring at him, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. 

Sam kisses him. 

It’s something he’s thought about, wanted to do, since he knew what kissing even was. Dean’s mouth is even softer than he imagined and it opens under his, hot and wet and exploring Sam’s mouth. It feels so good, it makes him dizzy, and Sam’s hands tighten on Dean’s shoulders as Dean reaches up to rest his hands on Sam’s hips, sliding just under his shirt to rest against bare skin, every point of contact like an electric wire lighting him up from the inside. He pulls Sam closer, and Sam’s heart skip a beat, because even now he wasn’t really expecting anything but rejection.

It’s a long and filthy kiss, open-mouthed, slick sounds and hot, wet pressure. Sam is hard in his jeans, because he gets hard when he thinks too long about Dean’s hands and this is the hottest thing that has ever happened to him, and he has to force himself not to rut up against Dean’s chest, to not come on too fast. If Dean’s going to shove him away at some point, he doesn’t want to speed it up. Just kissing is more than he ever expected to get.

Dean pulls away after what feels like an eternity, and Sam can see his mouth is wet and shiny in the light from the lamp. “We can’t,” Dean says, but he doesn’t sound convinced. Not really. Sam has spent a lifetime trying to figure out Dean; he knows when a no is a no, and when Dean just needs a bit of a push.

And generally, Dean is pretty bad at saying no to him. He shoplifts cake when Sam bats his eyes, lets Sam stay up an extra hour to watch TV with him, helps him with his homework even when John tells them it’s a waste of time.

“Please,” Sam says, and just looks at Dean. Pleading. Desperate. Dean stares back at him, mouth open and lips wet and swollen from kissing, and when Sam shifts just a little he can feel the hard line of Dean’s cock under his ass.

“Oh, god,” Dean says, and pulls Sam in again.

The sounds of explosions and gunshots is the background music as Dean flips them over, laying Sam out on the couch with a hand buried in his hair. Sam is shooting up, outgrowing all his clothes within a couple of months, but Dean is still just a little taller, and this makes him feel small in the best possible way. Dean’s mouth moves down, licking at Sam’s jaw, his neck. Dean’s teeth sink into his throat, down near the base, and Sam clings to him and gasps up at the ceiling. He can feel the way Dean is marking him, bruising him, for everyone to see.

Dean pulls back for a moment, looking down and admiring his handiwork, and Sam takes the opportunity to pull his shirt off and toss it aside. Dean follows his lead. Sam isn’t exactly in love with his body — still mid-growth spurt, too long and lanky, all his ribs showing — but Dean doesn’t seem to care, running his hands down Sam’s chest and leaning down to kiss his collarbone, his sternum, his bellybutton. Sam can’t see much of Dean in this half-dim light, but he can see the lines of muscle, the amulet against his chest, the few scars from hunts that he’s gained so far. Sam was the one who stitched up half of them, while John bit down on a towel and stitched his own bullet wounds on the other side of a wall.

He doesn’t want to think about that right now. He sits up and stumbles off the couch, tripping over his feet, the whole room swimming around him. The adrenaline-fueled clearheadedness that led to him kissing Dean in the first place didn’t improve his coordination. He makes it to his and Dean’s bed and pulls off his jeans, kicking them onto the floor. His underwear next, and he doesn’t hesitate until they’re already off, and then he has a moment of doubt, looking up and not being sure he’ll see Dean there, following him.

Of course Dean is there. Dean is taking off his own jeans, and Sam’s mouth waters when he sees the outline of Dean’s cock through his underwear. Dean pulls that off, too, and Sam has seen him naked before, has seen his dick, but never like this, hard and curved in towards his belly and leaking a bit at the tip.

He’s so fixated on Dean’s dick as he comes over to the bed that he almost misses it when Dean takes Sam’s dick in his hand, stroking it dry. Sam’s hips jerk and he grabs Dean’s arm, nails digging in, gasping. He’s ready to blow just from Dean touching him, which would feel pathetic if he had any room in his mind for anything except the way Dean’s hand feels. Calloused and warm and the metal edge of his ring sliding against Sam’s dick.

“Sammy,” Dean says, breathing hard, “Sammy, Jesus—” and Sam pulls away. It might be the hardest thing he’s ever done. He slides back on the bed, reaches over to flick on a lamp because he wants to see this, wants to remember it. Dean climbs onto the bed, kneeling between Sam’s legs, and Sam pulls him into another kiss, feeling the head of Dean’s cock dragging across his stomach.

He’s going to blow his load just from being naked with Dean touching him, he’s sure of it, and when Dean reaches down and wraps his hand around both of their dicks, he knows he’s gone. He keeps kissing Dean and holds him tight until he closes his eyes and comes harder than he ever has in his life, his nails digging into Dean’s shoulders hard enough to break the skin.

Dean is gasping, a ragged, painful sound that Sam has only ever associated with pain — Dean having his broken arm set, Dean being stitched up, Dean’s mouth leaking blood after a vicious blow to the head. It’s an odd image in the middle of this, but it vanishes from his head a moment later as Dean ruts against him, leaning over Sam with one hand braced against the mattress next to Sam’s head, rutting into his fist and against Sam’s softening cock. When he comes, it’s almost silent, except for the faintest whisper of Sam’s name.

He collapses on top of Sam, heavy and uncoordinated, and Sam doesn’t mind at all. He just breathes, staring up at the ceiling, still a little dizzy and alcohol-clouded. His body feels sticky. He can barely breathe with Dean crushing his lungs and his sweated-dampened skin is starting to cool.

Dean’s mouth presses against the side of his neck, and Sam smiles at the ceiling. He can’t stop smiling.

He needs to move, needs to clean up and maybe drink some water so he doesn’t wake up with a massive hangover, needs to get dressed, but he doesn’t want to move, or stop touching Dean. When he tries to move, Dean just pulls him closer, and he has to bite down a smile.

“Clean up,” he manages after his second escape attempt is thwarted by Dean pulling him closer again. “Come on, we’re gonna be gross.”

“Ugh,” Dean grumbles, and rolls off Sam, letting him breathe. His stomach is sticky with their combined jizz, half dry, some bits of it flaking off. He sits up and looks around. The TV is still on, the credits rolling on the movie. The beginning of the movie feels like a lifetime ago.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean says after a moment, and gets off the bed, stumbling towards the bathroom. Sam is about to follow him when he comes back with two washcloths and throws one at Sam. They both clean up a little and Sam gets up to grab his underwear and piss and rinse his mouth with mouthwash to get rid of some of the taste of beer.

When he comes back into the main room, Dean is on their bed. Their bed. Still sharing, even though John hasn’t been back for ages. He’s in his boxers, retrieved from somewhere on the floor, and he’s looking at Sam, terrified.

“Sammy, I’m…” he starts, and Sam kisses him. He’s still not great at it, maybe, but Dean’s mouth opens under it for him, his hands pulling Sam closer, one on his back and one in his hair.

“Don’t,” he says, fierce. “We’re not like everyone else, okay? This is… this is who we are.” Yes, they’re brothers, but they’re not normal people. This was always going to happen. “I want it.”

And Dean, in the end, always gives in to what Sam wants.

When Sam falls asleep that night, he’s holding Dean, and when he wakes up in the middle of the night — still barely sober, his head pounding — they’re still connected. Dean is still holding his hand.


End file.
